Press Me Close
by Immortal x Snow
Summary: And when I get tired, rock me to sleep so I can wake up in your arms. 30 hugs claim for Beatrice x Battler.
1. Tangled Up

**Okay, okay, so I know I said I wanted to do a 30 kisses, but some things happened, and now I'm doing 30 hugs. Because kisses are just overrated and stuff - *shot***

**I dedicate this drabble to Kitty Kat K.O. for recently watching Umineko. :D  
**

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

"It's not like this is my fault! You were the one who decided to trip me! And then you were the one who tripped yourself in the process and got yourself stuck like this!"

Beatrice pouts as she tries to free her arms from around Battler's, while struggling to free her legs from their awkwardly twisted position.

"I didn't trip!" She protests. "I did it on purpose! After all, who knows what kinds of things you could have done if you would have fallen? You could have grabbed my ankle and made me fall..."

"I don't care whether or not you did it on purpose," Battler replies. "It's just awkward to have you on top of me like this."

"Aw, but Battler~. It's _normal _for me to be on top, right?"

He blushes at her face and tries to sit up, but finds that Beatrice's legs, entwined with his, are limiting his movement.

"Beato, c'mon. Move your legs with mine, if you want to get untangled."

_I hope she's not taking what I'm saying the wrong way, _he thinks, realizing how dirty his words are sounding.

Ignoring the sounds of Ronove's laughter, Beatrice's face turns red as she untangles her legs from Battler's and untwists her arms around his.

_I'm going to hold this against him later... For hugging me... _Despite this, she knows she enjoyed it.

Their bodies separated, Battler and Beatrice attempt to stand up, only to fall over and onto each other once more.

"What - " Battler begins, but his words are interrupted by the interloper that is Beatrice's voice.

"Ronove! I_ know_ you were the one who covered the floor with butter!"

* * *

**We all know we love Ronove. XD**


	2. Teddy Bear

**Urk. I should have posted this a few hours ago, but then I got nervous because I thought it was terrible. Oh well. Hopefully I can still update these regularly with school ready to start again - I'll probably just write them in Christian Morality. XD**

* * *

He has never imagined that someone so cruel could feel so soft. Perhaps this is because of Battler's subconscious insinuation that physical characteristics are dependent on personality - optimistic people always have a sort of countenance that is perpetually glowing and radiating light; people who are constantly angry are stiff and hard to the touch.

But this is different from what he has always believed.

Her skin isn't frigid; her limbs are neither hard nor stiff. On the contrary, Battler finds that Beatrice's skin is warm and her limbs soft, molded in such a way that it's almost as if she is meant to be held. As he presses her closer, he begins to think that it's as though her body is shaped to complete his; it's as though she had been created to fit perfectly against his chest, to fit her hands perfectly in his.

In a way, Battler wants to think that the idea of Beatrice and himself completing each other is both ludicrous and nonsensical - but he makes his thoughts stop. No intruding voice in his head will be permitted to ruin something like this. Even if it's nothing special. Even if there's no clear reason why he's embracing her. It doesn't matter.

When he finally lets her go, Beatrice gives him a nonplussed look and asks, "Why did you do that?"

Shrugging, Battler answers, "No reason. I just wanted to see something."

_Yes. She does feel like a teddy bear underneath all that cruelty._


	3. Just a Memory

**Okay, I think that I only wrote something like this because my brain died. I need sleep. And I was going to collide for this one, but I lost what I wrote it on.  
**

* * *

Bitter is what reminisces are supposed to be. Filled with unsatisfied longings and painful desires to return to a vanishing reality, memories are supposed to ache; emptiness's usurpation of times that were once so real, so palpable, is the irony and paradox of existence. Fleeing away with the wind are the feelings people feel, pressed close for the briefest of moments, before sentiments are snatched away and held so far away that repeating the past is unattainable and impossible. Time is linear, not meant to be relished more than once; life keeps moving along, even for those who do not exist within a straightforward, unceasingly moving world - even in a metaphysical existence, events do not occur in a loop; they are undeviating.

But those who exist in a world like this - regardless of its questionable tangibility and existence - can create phenomenons. Perhaps creating a converse ebb of time is not among those miracles, but certainly the capacity to treasure memories, even the most trifling and inconsequential, and to cause things to occur once more - in manners as similar to the original occurrence as they are - is one of the more amazing feats of love.

Resting close to Battler's heart is not a mere recollection for Beatrice: recollections do not repeat themselves. Every time she feels him hold her, it is something new entirely, yet like a memory in a paradoxical, almost labyrinthine way. It is a new experience; similarly, it is almost a replica of all the past times he has expressed a gesture like the one he is now. Confusing though such thoughts may be.

Feeling loved and loving are not just memories: they are new existences in themselves, with the power to re-experience things of the past in a new luminosity.


	4. Oxygen

**Okay. So maybe air isn't entirely oxygen, but I'm not writing a chemistry paper here or anything.**

* * *

All he needs is oxygen. And he lacks it not.

What constitutes as air, something so ostensibly trifling and quotidian, is entirely arbitrary; that which is necessary to continue living is individual for Battler. Not only will he die without his air, but he also lives for it. Supporting the very essence of his existence, this oxygen is distinguished from everything else in any world - it is unique unto itself - and it is unlike anything Battler has ever experienced or known. Paradoxical is the idea that he knows not what sustains him - yet, that is the beautiful conundrum of it all. Not understanding how this corporeal air nourishes him is almost enjoyable: he recognizes that there is always more to learn and realize as he continues to thrive on this air. While he may know _who _is his oxygen, he does not understand her in herself.

And he wants to reach out and press the girl giving him life - and something to survive for - close, holding her tightly to transmute his life into her.

Little does he know that they are the oxygen for each other. Because it is only those who receive who can give.


	5. Euthanasia

**Minor Ep 5 spoilers in this one.**

* * *

"Just kill me now."

Remaining unspoken and unutterable, but nonetheless painfully patent and poignant, the words in Beatrice's dead, empty eyes speak with a voice so vociferous, yet inaudible. Cutting into the heart of the man next to her, the pools of comatose, multifaceted remorse stare listlessly ahead, unable to do more than plead and entreat silently. Removed from the entity and world of those who are truly alive in every sense, Beatrice doesn't move, aside from weak shivering, a symbol of her new fragility.

"Put me out of my misery..."

Reacting not to the warmth and presence of Battler beside her, Beatrice continues to gaze with an empty, depressed glaze in her eyes, not comprehending or recognizing for several moments. As she finally forces herself - her fragmented, smashed, shattered soul and her limp, unusually loose limbs - to turn extremely weakly and unbelievably slowly, her only means of discourse, as well as the only portals to her incommunicable emotions, reach out, hoping that her silent plea will be answered.

"Just... Euthanize me..."

He places a hand over hers that he knows she won't feel or respond to. Bending down, Battler gazes into an external mirror of Beatrice's internal anguish and, nearly looking away because he cannot bear to see her suffer such agony, he whispers something he doesn't think she can hear into her ear.

"No." He hugs her close. "I won't do that. Why kill you when I can be here to help you live?"

And in the silence, Battler thinks that maybe, by some chance, a faint, weak sound escaped from the witch's lips.


	6. Fais de Beaux Reves

Nightmares.

Quite possibly the least likely things to plague Beatrice are the fevered delusions that attack in slumber - interlopers in once-pleasant reveries. Such a thing is preposterous: someone as great and terrible as she is should not awaken shaking, with tears shimmering in the corners of her eyes, threatening to overflow. Should she wake up to realize in an unstable, shaky mentality that she had been flailing and tossing and turning violently and restlessly in her slumber? Of course not!

Having just broken free from her chains of a delusional hell, Beatrice gasps in shock as she realizes that she had merely been sleeping.

_Awful... That was terrible, _she thinks once she is fully conscious. _And of all things to dream about... Why was it something like that?_

Some strange instinct motivates her to wonder if, perchance, it was not a simple nightmare. There is a sickening possibility that what appeared to be her slumber might have been a disjointed scene she, scared and shaken, had witnessed.

In the surprisingly loud silence that ensues, now surrounding her, Beatrice suddenly becomes very anxious - there isn't a possibility that he can... Is there?

Heart thudding faster and with more intensity than she would like to admit, Beatrice hurriedly drags herself out of bed and, walking to the door of her room, peers out into the darkness of the juxtaposed room.

All is holding its breath, not daring to move an inch for fear of what it may discover. Blood seems to pulsate furiously in Beatrice's veins, nearly causing vertigo. Scarcely making any noise, she continues into the room, daring to pray that her suspicions and speculations are not what she believes them to be - veracity.

_He's not. I just know it._

Nearly tripping in the blinding darkness, the witch finds her way to Battler's bed and reaches down. She holds her breath until she feels the warmth of his face against her probing fingers. Sighing in relief, and feeling rather ridiculous, Beatrice relaxes, realizing that her nightmares were naught but temporary delusions.

_No... He's all right._

"Beato, what are you doing...?"

The sound of his voice is enough to both startle and yet tranquilize Beatrice all the more. Finding that Battler's eyes are now open and her hand is still on his forehead, she looks at him for a long time, contemplating her response.

"Nothing!" She smirks, hoping that her real motives shall remain ambiguous. "Just taking a walk, that's all."

She turns to walk back to her room; however, Battler's hand gripping her wrist stops her.

"You were having a bad dream."

Scowling and annoyed that he has discovered her secret, Beatrice whirls angrily, expecting to find Battler's eyes full of taunting and vexing amusement. Instead, however, she finds no teasing in his expression: only sympathy and concern color his features.

"You were, weren't you?" He inquires again, scrutinizing her face carefully, noting every dried tear on her cheek and every bead of sweat on her forehead.

"What makes you think that I was?" She asks, still chary of his intentions.

"The sounds. I could hear you in there, crying out in fear because something was disturbing you in subconscious ways. You're not good at hiding things like this, you know?"

Her glare subdued, Beatrice looks awkwardly away from Battler; because of this, she doesn't notice him rising from his supine position to stand beside her and suddenly hug her.

"Wha - What do you think you're doing?!" She demands, although not with anger or irritation.

"What were you dreaming about?" Battler asks, worry seeping into his tone, as Beatrice's hair tickles his face and he presses her closer to his body.

She doesn't answer for a few moments, still recovering from the shock of Battler actually hugging her and trying to comfort her.

_But why would he care, anyway?_

"You can tell me, you know." Battler tries to cajole her into telling him about her nightmare; he is still fairly concerned about her, for a reason that he cannot define.

Balking at first, but growing calmer as she goes on, Beatrice begins to tell Battler about her dream. Perhaps talking about it will help her feel better, even though she thinks that someone like herself shouldn't be this weak - or feel this way about an opponent.

"I don't remember much, actually, but... All I know is that I killed you. And the world stopped existing." Her body stiffens in Battler's arms, and he feels the shift from surprise to tenseness.

_Killed me, and the world ceased to exist. _Battler muses over this, the darkness and silence providing the perfect atmosphere for thoughts to fester. _This doesn't mean that if she lost me, it would impact her deeply, does it?_

"Hey, Beato," he says after an awkward initial pause, "how about you stay here until you fall asleep again?"

Scowling, Beatrice asks, "Why? What good would that do?"

"Well, first of all, it'll let you know that I'm not going anywhere. Secondly... I don't know."

Pulling back to look at Battler's face, Beatrice grins cockily, pretending to have recovered. "You just want to sleep with me, right? I never knew your thoughts were that dirty~."

Annoyance flashes across Battler's face for a second as he replies, "Don't take advantage of this. It's just this one time. And only until you fall asleep again."

Beatrice pulls Battler close, almost as though taunting him.

"Okay. Until I fall asleep. Then you get to carry me back to my room."

Succumbing to her conditions, Battler embraces Beatrice, and the resounding echoes of his heartbeat pulse harmoniously with her own. Eventually, she calms fully and finally falls asleep with a faint smile on her face. When seeing this, Battler smiles gently, and carefully, so as not to intrude upon her rest, he lays the witch in his own bed, sitting down beside it to watch over her.

"Sweet dreams, Beato."

Her dreams are very different this time, focusing not on blood, violence, and the death of a loved one; rather, she finds that, even though she doesn't entirely understand what is going on, she thinks that she possibly feels something touching her lips. Something soft. Something belonging to someone she knows quite well.

And being kissed has never felt so consoling.

* * *

**Dreaming about killing people you love is quite horrifying...**


	7. The Wrong Words

**I think it's a proven fact that I cannot write when in a bad mood. Or on a bus\competing in science competitions, for that matter.  
**

* * *

Perhaps this isn't happening at all.

Yes, that is what Battler decides to believe, that his head does not swim with vertigo and puzzlement, that he does not feel as fatigued as he does.

Because, of course, there is no way he's actually succumbing to illness. Not with Beatrice around is he. With her eager to continue their game, he refuses to give in to the feverish pangs throbbing all throughout his body. Knowing entirely what she can do to him in his weakened state is impossible; Battler decides that ignorance is indeed bliss, and decides not to dwell on the obvious.

Sighing, he tries to think of some way to counter this internal foe, which is attacking him violently in both slumber and wakefulness. However, it is too late: Beatrice appears in his room, having noted his blatant absence and desire to refrain from playing for the day - or even several days, depending on exactly how sick he is.

"Why are you still sleeping, Battler~?" She queries, grinning as she crosses her arms and begins to antagonize him.

"Because -" He opens his mouth too impulsively; he has no response or explanation bubbling up to his lips.

"Because why?" Noting Battler's reluctance and inability to answer, Beatrice presses further, agitating the ill man all the more.

"Because... Because I said so, that's why!"

His forceful retaliation causes him to break into a fit of coughing, which Beatrice smirks at.

"You're not falling ill, are you~?"

Giving up, Battler decides that it is futile to argue further.

"And what if I am?" His tone sounds defeated, revealing the pallor of his spirit and complexion.

"I know _exactly _what to do if you're sick..."

Maybe he shouldn't have given up so soon...

"What?" Battler inquires, knowing that he should not ask.

Grinning still, the witch unveils her scheme.

"If you're sick, there's nothing for me to do but take care of you, right?"

Yes, Battler really should not have asked; composed of all the wrong words was his inquiry.

"You're just going to kill me if you try."

"Aw, I wouldn't do something like that~."

"Of course you would."

Reaching down, Beatrice pulls the blankets on Battler's bed up to his chin.

"If you're really that ill, then you should rest," she says in a quieter voice, changing the subject in an attempt to staunch Battler's objections. "Just sleep and leave everything up to me, okay~?"

Again, these the wrong words are. And Battler is unable to sleep; he knows that all hell is about to be unleashed.

* * *

Sneakily peering over at Battler, Beatrice sees that he has finally succumbed to the fatigues of fever, and a pleasant look flits across her face.

"Good. Now I can get things ready..."

Holding a thermometer between her fingers like a syringe, she walks over to his bed and slowly slips the device between his lips and underneath his tongue. He stirs slightly but does not awaken, and Beatrice is pleased with her success, fleeting though it be.

While impatiently waiting, Beatrice begins to pace around the room, before finally removing the thermometer from Battler's mouth.

"One hundred and four degrees... Wait, shouldn't he be dead, then?!"

Perplexed - and anxious - Beatrice stares at it again, scowling when she sees that she is holding it upside down. Flipping it, she reads the other, more familiar scale, noting that his temperature is really forty degrees.

"That's slightly more reasonable." A nod. "Now, I'll get something for his head."

She quickly returns to his side with a sopping wet cloth, and presses it to his forehead; however, this too creates a dilemma. She presses too hard, and cold water slides down Battler's face, awakening him.

"Beato, what are you doing?" He asks, subconscious and irate.

"Trying to bring your fever down - what else?"

He frowns and sighs.

"You were the one who told me to sleep; now you're the one keeping me awake! You're just trying to exacerbate my illness, aren't you?"

"Like I said, I wouldn't do something like that! Just go back to sleep, okay~?"

Rolling his eyes, Battler shifts to face the wall and shuts his eyes.

_He could at least thank me. _Beatrice frowns. _I'm just trying to make him feel better!_

She turns and walks out of the room in a huff.

* * *

_Next task. Broth always helps a person feel better, right?_

Of course, Beatrice hasn't forgotten what ensued when she attempted to make chocolate for Battler on Valentine's Day; although she chooses not to recognize it, she knows that her culinary skills - or lack thereof - are sufficient to make the worst of cooks tremble in their eternal respite. But it's just simple, bland broth: what could possibly backfire?

Pouring the cold liquid into a small saucepan, Beatrice licks some of the broth that has dripped onto her fingers.

_It tastes slightly plain... Maybe it will taste better if I add salt?_

She adds a few of the crystals and stirs them into the warming liquid. Upon tasting it, she takes on a pleased look.

_This tastes wonderful! I'm sure he'll like it..._

Deciding that perhaps some more salt will increase the flavor of the broth, Beatrice adds another few pinches, and, confident that Battler will finally be forced to acknowledge her cooking capabilities, she pours the steaming liquid into a bowl.

She hurries back to Battler's room, being careful not to spill a drop of the liquid, and opens the door. Finding that Battler is still awake, she offers him the bowl with a smirk.

"Now you'll see how good I am at cooking, Battler~."

"I would really rather skip out on that experience, thanks."

Beatrice toys with the spoon in the bowl.

"Aw, are you going to make me spoon-feed this to you? Because I'd be glad to, of course!"

Ignoring Battler's shocked expression, she fills the spoon with broth and sticks it into his mouth. She watches smugly as she pulls the spoon out of his mouth; however, she becomes nonplussed when she sees him struggle to swallow the broth.

"What's wrong? Is it too wonderful to swallow?"

"You... You idiot!" Battler yells, his voice hoarse and his throat sore, once he has forced the liquid down. "What did you put in this?!"

"Salt, of course! And it tastes wonderful!"

"This isn't salt! This has to be _sugar! _You can't even differentiate between the two?"

"It's just your taste buds lying to you! I bet you can't taste anything because you're sick!"

He makes a disgusted face.

"I'd never drink this, sick or well! It's revolting!"

"...You wouldn't drink it out of my mouth, would you?" Her expression takes on a naughty air.

"Of course not!" Battler stares at her in horror. "You'd get sick, too!"

"No I won't!"

Beatrice spoons some of the liquid into her mouth, then leans over and presses her lips against Battler's, letting the liquid drain into his mouth and down his throat. Wrapping her arms around him, she holds him with a tight grip, so that he cannot break free without swallowing.

"Didn't it taste better that way~?" Pulling away, she makes an amused face at him.

And, of course, it did. But Battler would never admit that - those words would be too_ right _for him to say.


	8. Ichi go Ichi e

**I... I don't know what the hell happened here. Honestly. XD;;; And Ichi-go ichi-e is basically Japanese for "this time only."  
**

**Anyway. This didn't get updated for a bit because most of my writing time is being spent on another Beatrice x Battler project, so look for that soon~**

**And, as an end to this long A\N, I want to dedicate this theme to my RL buddy, Jamie. For being an awesome friend, and for reading these. XD  
**

* * *

She sighs, cursing quietly under her breath.

"What did I tell you, Beato?" Battler folds his arms grumpily and looks indignantly at the coughing witch.

"Just leave me alone!" She yells furiously between loud, quaking coughs.

Not wanting to give in to her demands, Battler decides to rub it in, adding acid to Beatrice's already injured pride.

"I told you that you'd get sick, but no, you had to be an idiot and kiss me -"

"So you're actually acknowledging it as a kiss and not mere force-feeding?"

"N-No," Battler stutters, vexed and abashed that Beatrice caught onto his verbal diction, "and either way, don't whine to me! You brought this on yourself!"

"But Battler..." Beatrice moans as she snuggles deep down into the folds of her bedsheets. "Who's going to take care of me?"

"Get Ronove to do that." Showing no sympathy, Battler turns to leave the room.

"The last thing I need right now is him making fun of me!" She protests as loudly as feasible, choking and coughing due to her overextending her voice.

Nearly at the doorway, Battler pauses momentarily at the sounds of the witch's plea and her loud intakes of air between violent fits of coughing.

_It's her own damn fault, _he thinks, mentally stating the obvious. _But..._

"Fine," he mumbles reluctantly, swayed by Beatrice's rather pathetic plea. "But this time and this time only."

Her eyes light up slightly, diffusing the fevered glaze inundating the ebbing oceans in her sick eyes.

"Really?" She asks incredulously, wincing faintly in pain.

"Yes, really. But only because I don't want you getting yourself into some sort of trouble."

With a nonchalant air, Battler returns to Beatrice's bedside, pretending not to care at all; he is,while indignant, somewhat anxious - he has had the illness she has contracted, and knows well each internal ailment and external ache. No stranger to what she feels is he; he knows that she must be in acute, excruciating pain, with heat searing behind her brow and coursing through her veins. Placing a hand on her forehead, Battler finds that Beatrice's skin is feverish and coated with a thin layer of sweat.

_She's just as sick as I was, _he realizes as his hand moves down to cup her cheek.

"What was that about becoming ill from each other, Battler?" She looks up at him, a shadow of a smirk on her face.

"I'm not going to do anything! I'm just checking how hot your face is..."

"You'll stay here, right?"

"Why? I know I said I would - _only_ for now - but why?"

_More like "what am I getting myself into...?"_

"Because... I don't want to be left alone. Besides, this way I can order you around, right -"

Battler silences her by thrusting a small metallic thermometer into her mouth.

"Order me around. Sure." Sometimes, Battler just loves sarcasm.

Trying to move the thermometer with her mouth so that she can speak, Beatrice mumbles something incoherent at Battler, before lying back down on the pillows and staring up at the ceiling.

A few minutes pass before Battler removes the thermometer, which reads thirty-nine degrees, and says, "Beato, I'm going to get you some fever reducers and water."

Lighting up her face is a small smile, conceived at Beatrice's thought that Battler is obeying her, even though she may have not made the demand.

Later, after she has drunk the glass of cold water, held up in Battler's arms to do it (upon her request), and taken the medicine, Beatrice asks Battler if he will make her some tea.

"I'm sure it would make me feel better, Battler~," she murmurs, almost appearing to be regaining her strength.

"No. That would just make you feel worse, as a matter of fact. Besides, I'm not letting you order me around, remember? I'm just here for this one time, and of my own accord."

However, Beatrice insists on annoying him until he yells at her, "Will you just shut up?!"

Giving him a stare, Beatrice retorts, "Only if you _make _me shut up -"

Curtailed by Battler's hand are her words; misinterpreting her wish, he merely forces a hand over her mouth to silence her. When she tries to bite his hand, however, he is smart enough to yank it back.

"Not like that - kiss me to shut me up." She grins teasingly.

His facial countenance melting into one of shock, Battler shakes his head.

"No. Don't tell me that you're actually forgetting what happened last time -"

Unable to speak any longer, Battler shudders slightly under the feel of Beatrice's hot lips fighting against his own. As though a will of their own they possess, his arms embrace her, almost as though trying to keep her safe so that she does not succumb to her illness.

However, this is his biggest mistake.

The strength and feel of his arms around her make Beatrice's stomach roll dangerously, and she feels a slightly sour taste in her mouth. It seems to happen so quickly, and so instantaneously, that she has no time to think, before she feels something searingly hot fight up into her mouth. With a slight cough, the witch opens her mouth, and a translucent, whitish liquid is suddenly expelled from her lips - and, even though she made certain to pull back slightly, some of the vomit winds up in Battler's mouth.

While Beatrice continues to cough and choke, still throwing up slightly, Battler rushes out of the room to rinse his mouth out with water, eyes widening in horror.

And, of course, despite his valuable lesson - never kiss someone who is nauseated and full of water - he returns to Beatrice - for this time, and this time _only_. Because who else is going to help her clean up her clothes?


	9. Sois Un Ange

Beatrice.

The most magnificent of titles is it in the meta-realm; upon hearing it, all are reminded of who the quintessence of beauty and majesty is, that is, the Golden and Endless Witch herself.

But it is just a title; receiving it erases the previous names of those who now behold it - at least, in the case of the Golden Witch Battler knows.

Eva-Beatrice had retained part of her name upon being bestowed with the meritocratic title, as did Ange-Beatrice. However, Beatrice is left with just that - Beatrice. Her own name remains unknown by most, and ignored by even more. And the lack of a name signifies the lack of an identity: why else would she have asked Battler to give her a glorious, yet cute, name?

However, she knows her own name. Knows it well. Locked away inside her heart is it, just waiting to be released and known. At the same time, she can't help but enjoy being called "Beato." Diminutive of her former title it is, ostensibly lowering her to a being degenerate of her former self, but because _he _gave it to her, she shall be content with it, while never forgetting her original name.

And she never imagined that there might eventually dawn a day when she would be called upon to reveal it to the world. To make it known. One person may not constitute of a world to some; however, for others like Beatrice, he _is _her world. Therefore, she is revealing it to the world as she whispers it into his ear, softly and with reverential awe - one that is not for herself, but for the peculiar sanctity of unveiling her name to him.

And when she removes her lips from Battler's ear, awaiting his reaction, she scans his eyes and the surprised glaze over them.

After a few seconds, Battler looks at her and replies, forgetting all familiarity he has with the name, "...Somehow, it's angelic. So contrary to you, Ma - Beato."

Because he cannot forget his obligation, uttered by her, to never speak her name aloud; despite her rule, Beatrice relishes in the feeling of hearing him commit an error with his tongue and speak it: he makes it sound angelic.

Hugging his face for the briefest and most inconsequential of seconds, her hand quickly punches Battler in the jaw.

"Contrary to me, huh~?" She challenges as Battler stumbles backward.

And even with his face aching, Battler can't help but think that with a name like hers, Beatrice should be an angel, not a witch.

* * *

**So, explanation time. There's this rumor going around that Beato's real name is actually Maria, and I kinda believe in that theory. So, whether or not it's true or false, I felt to build this fic around that idea. Sorry if I'm wrong or offended anyone with that. XD;;;**

**Also, another explanation: "sois un ange" is French for "be an angel." Don't ask me, I have no idea why so many of these themes are French. XD  
**


	10. Orange

**I. Tried. So hard. On. This.**

**But it's still horrible. ._.  
**

* * *

"Ridiculous! You must be colorblind to think of something like that!"

His energy drained by the long day he has just suffered through, Battler does not have the capacity to respond positively to Beatrice's insult.

"Ridiculous!? You're the ridiculous one, you dumbass! Aren't _you _colorblind for thinking something that stupid?"

Playing with one of the curly ringlets tucked behind her ear, Beatrice nonchalantly ignores Battler for a few minutes before responding.

"But it's _my _hair, isn't it~? Shouldn't I know what color it is, and ignore whatever other perspectives of yours?"

"But what if my idea is correct? Just try proving that your hair isn't orange with the red -"

Around the room swirl mellifluous red letters - in error is whoever claims that truth is merely ugly, for it is very beautiful and graceful - that interrupt Battler.

"My hair is _blonde_, Battler~," states Beatrice with the red text, efficiently ending the argument.

Flashing across Beatrice's face is a triumphant, mocking grin after the red has disappeared, a long stretch of loud silence replacing it.

"Truth isn't just a matter of perspective, now is it, Battler~?" Beatrice taunts. "Orange is orange; yellow is yellow. My hair is what it is. And it's _blonde._ No matter what you think of it."

Unwilling and unable to argue further with his lack of mental stamina, Battler sighs reluctantly, hugs Beatrice - much to her surprise - and mutters, his face pressed against her tresses, "Yellow or orange, I like your hair. No matter what color it is, it's beautiful."

* * *

**Okay, okay, explanation time. Maybe Beatrice's hair is kind of a gingery-blond, like strawberry blonde. It still works with the red truth - no matter what, she still has at least _some _blonde in her hair. So no one kill me, please?**


	11. Collide

**I have no idea where this one went, maaaaan. ._. Then again, it's past one in the morning and my sense of judgment ran away with the sun.  
**

**But... Colliding with people is fun. Until your older brother pushes you into some kid who happens to hate you... Because then all hell breaks loose.  
**

* * *

"Say it again and I'll come over there and let you have it!"

Battler grins at Beatrice's fury and vexation.

"I said that if you're really over one thousand years old, then that makes you an old hag, doesn't it?"

Rankling in her mind, the insult seems to reverberate in Beatrice's ears, and the witch, eyes narrowing, glares at Battler from the other side of the room. Throughout the space settles a silence, disturbed only by nearly palpable inner torments and taunts, barely coming to rest before it is shattered again.

"I warned you!" Beatrice growls, rushing athwart the room with a speed that is amazingly swift, considering that her long skirts are slowing her down somewhat.

One factor there is, however, that interlopes with her assault on Battler. To see it approaching is impossible; therefore, Beatrice doesn't see Ronove's outstretched foot, and as she trips, she squeaks, falls forward, and, her eyes tightly shut, crashes into something.

Blinking, she slowly opens her eyes to find Battler beneath her, pressed down securely and firmly by her hands, as though she has subdued him in some skirmish. Although still infuriated is she, peculiarity also fills her: beginning to disintegrate, her rage melts away as she feels Battler's arms around her, pulling her closer, as though he is trying to prevent her from harming herself by falling on the hard floor. Fading away is her desire to punch him in the face so hard that the pain afflicts him for weeks to come; all she wants to do, for some reason, is hold him close, too.

_I'm only willing to do something like that because my revenge is getting to tackle him to the floor, _she decides as she smirks at Battler and the look on his face...

Interfering, however, is Ronove as he laughs, rekindling and exacerbating Beatrice's outrage.

Still keeping a hand on Battler to suppress him on the floor, Beatrice turns and glowers at her furniture.

"R-Ronove! You were the one who tripped me!" She nearly snarls with abashment and fury.

"Yes, Milady," replies he candidly, obviously unashamed of his deportment. "If I am correct, you squeaked when I did so, as well."

"I did not!" She denies, gnashing her teeth.

Ignoring Beatrice's denial of the obvious, Ronove continues, "And if I'm not mistaken, you said that you were going to let Battler-sama 'have it.' Just what is this 'it' to which you were referring?"

To hear her words re-uttered in such a context is, for Beatrice, to feel all the angrier.

"Just get out of here, Ronove!" Commands she furiously and so loudly that Battler winces under the might of her voice.

Bowing slightly and still snickering, Ronove disappears in a luminous flash of golden butterflies.

Face contorted slightly and twitching with pure irateness, Beatrice once more directs her attention to Battler, who is still underneath her. With one look at his face and one second of the warmth of his arms around her body again, she feels healed by some strange panacea.

"Ah, yes~," she coos, voice oozing with an odd quality, "your punishment."

Paying no heed to Battler's anxious gulp, the witch presses her face against his for a moment, before sharply biting down on Battler's earlobe. He winces in pain for a moment, before Beatrice pulls back and, satisfied at the teethmarks she has left, releases Battler and stands up.

While watching him rise to his feet again and press a hand to his ear, pulling a face at the painful love bite, Beatrice can't help but shake her head and think that maybe - so long as Ronove isn't tripping her - she should collide with him again sometime.

* * *

**Because Ronove is win. XD**


	12. Rainbows and Butterflies

**Erm. So. I needed cheering up. XD**

**So I wrote this. ^_^**

**Oh! Oh! :D And I've been writing these for exactly a month now... ^_^  
**

* * *

It feels strange.

No, strange isn't even the proper word. Millions of adjectives she can conjure up to describe the emotion, yet not one of them perfectly illustrates how she feels.

Sitting in her chair, facing Battler, Beatrice leans her face against her hand in silent meditation. To attempt to encounter the most fitting word to convey and highlight these sentiments is to take upon a task beyond one's mental capabilities. And yet, if these feelings exist and are palpable, there must be words to describe them, obscure though they may be; demanding words to name something it is existing itself.

A matter of recognition is it, and if she knows what she feels, then the words will simply cascade from her lips - that is, if she lets them be known.

So a thorough excavation of her innermost thoughts she embarks upon, still wondering about what she feels.

What Beatrice ponders over firstly is how she feels when he hugs her. The rippling sensations of warmth racing down the shivers on her skin, the feeling of something strong and secure around her, as though blocking out the world and everything in it. The feeling of her frame gently enveloped by his, of her face pressed against his chest...

_That word would be protection. From what, I do not know - why would _he _feel the need to protect _me_?_

Second is how she feels when he touches her - merely touches her, whether such a touch be briefly holding her hand or accidentally brushing against her. Sometimes that is painful - never shall Beatrice forget the time Battler unintentionally shocked her with static electricity -; however, usually characterized is it by the nearly-acutely painful jerk of her heart stopping briefly. Even the feel of his clothes barely breezing across her skin is enough to conceive a strange, tugging feeling in her stomach.

_That word would be pulling. Because something is always tugging away at me whenever he - _

Finally, Beatrice pauses to envisage something that has not occurred as of yet. What... What will it feel like if he kisses her? To experience the sensation of his lips melting against her own, to feel warmth pressing against her mouth... Is to discover the answer?

_Mysterious is it... _

Watching Battler for a few moments, she believes that perhaps she knows the answer.

_Mysterious. Pulling. Protection. _

Rising from her chair, she walks over to Battler, who looks up from the crevices in the floor that he has been staring at.

"What, Beato?" Asks he nonchalantly, thinking that the witch has simply come to bother him.

Unable is she to formulate an answer as she puts her hands over his - pulling -, wraps an arm around his frame - protection -, and presses her lips against his softly - mysterious.

And as she feels an astonished response at first, then later a responsive reply, she believes that she has found the answer.

_Butterflies._

* * *

**And even if she never knows it, I dedicate this to the girl who causes the butterflies in my stomach. Wish she knew how much I love her.  
**


	13. Rainbows and Butterflies Part Two

**I know it's been a little bit longer than usual, but I kind of died this week. So yeah. XD**

**For skywolf666, because she gave me the idea of writing a second part of this prompt. ;)  
**

* * *

Spectra.

Full of gamuts are they, sparkling multifaceted-ly with flurries of luminosity. Contained in them are ribbons of connotation, fragments of feeling - cathartic calmness -; infused within the light are many different things. Some of these are patent, others only felt by only a few. For many such things are hidden, not even discoverable by those experiencing them.

Such is it for Battler.

Full of many emotions is he, with many different senses heightened and electrified. He feels astonishment, of course: who would not be filled with shock upon being embraced and kissed so instantaneously? For he had only been thinking about the peculiar reveries he has been having as of late, until, arising from her chair, Beatrice had pressed her body against his and explored the mysterious conundrum of her lips against his.

To shove her away and demand to know her intentions and desires is what he wants to believe is his first impulse; however, this isn't entirely true. Rather, this is what he disillusions himself to believe, looking at only one color in the rainbow.

Because, in accordance with the spectrum, surprise is only one band and type of light; also feels he the therapeutic relaxation of the warmth Beatrice radiates. But neither emotion overpowers the other; rather, they deviate and originate from the other, just like spectra of luminosity. These are not the only sentiments he feels, however. Inundated are other things, as ultraviolet light is invisible and intangible, yet one can still feel its warmth on his skin.

Such are these emotions: they are buried, invisible, and almost not palpable, yet he can still feel them pulsating inside. Perhaps he does not know what these are; perchance he does. And like the spectra manifested after rainstorms, they are almost unexpected, but still anticipated in every manner.

And as Beatrice pulls her mouth away from his, Battler finds the different colors fighting against each other, telling him to do different things. Because as long as he does not realize the reality of the unity of the rainbow, he cannot choose a path of action. Should he follow the astonishment and push her away? The suspicion, with its requisites of knowing what she wants? The warmth and tranquility, that seems so close to being the most luminous shade of the rainbow...?

Looking at these all together, Battler suddenly knows what these emotions form together.

Because love is like rainbows: unexpected, a gamut of lights - that is, ranges of emotion and affection -, ribbons of connotation - Beatrice is not just Beatrice; rather, she is someone so beautiful that she is rendered indescribable - and, most of all, perceivable, unified, and comprehensible.


	14. Dust

**I have nothing witty to add to this. *shrugs***

* * *

After a certain amount of time undergoing experiences like the ones that he has been subjected to, Battler thinks that he has become immune to surprise and shock; unusual occurrences can no longer rattle him, and nothing in any world will ever astonish him.

But today is different: never has Battler imagined that he'd see Beatrice crying with himself as a witness.

So, of course, he is startled when he notices tears overflowing from Beatrice's reddening eyes and rushing down her flushed cheeks. As she rubs a hand across her right eye, squinting her other eye shut as she does so, Battler watches her with a nonplussed - and almost concerned - countenance. But he chooses not to move closer to her for the time being, and waits on the other side of the room to see if she really is all right.

But when her tears don't subside, piqued enough is his interest that he finds himself rising from his chair and walking over to her.

_Perchance some rankling thought of hers is toying with her emotions, but could something else be happening of which I'm unaware? _Battler wonders as he continues to watch Beatrice cry. _This could be just another trick... I should be wary._

"Beato?" Queries he, still remaining alert and on guard in the event that something that he must avoid should suddenly occur.

Opening her left eye slowly, Beatrice gazes up at him, the expression on her face very different from what Battler expects from someone who is weeping.

"What?" Strange is her voice, too, not choked by sobs as a plant is strangled with weeds; rather, it sounds somewhat irritated.

_Ah, so she really is just faking to lead me on._

"There's no way I'm falling for some trick like that! How gullible do you think I am?"

She doesn't respond for a few moments, but when she does, her utterance is very different from what Battler expects.

"Oh, finally." Scowling, she removes her fist from her right eye and brushes the tears from her face.

Even more confused than before, Battler crosses his arms and stares down at her, one blue gaze mingling into the other.

"Finally what? Finally I've caught on to your little trick?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Again, you were just pretending to cry just to get me to feel sorry for you, weren't you?" Demands Battler, pointing his finger in Beatrice's face.

Shoving his hand out of her face, Beatrice replies nonchalantly, "I just had dust in my eye, idiot. I was trying to get it out."

Long is the silence that follows, and, even though Battler has been trying to keep himself from looking like an idiot, the awkward silence makes him realize that all he has managed to do is make himself appear all the stupider. So stupid, in fact, that he doesn't even challenge Beatrice to prove her actions innocent using the red truth.

Deciding to attempt to redeem himself, Battler bends down and briefly hugs Beatrice before muttering, "I suppose that's a good thing, then."

Because, even though he had believed Beatrice guilty of trickery, he knows that deep down, he had been - if only just a little - worried about her.


	15. Somei Yoshino

**Somei yoshino is a type of sakura with pure white flowers. This will make sense shortly. XD**

**Starts off in episode four, then ends in episode five, so there'll be spoilers, all right.**

* * *

Nothing feels right.

Nothing has felt right within Beatrice's body for a few days. Restless seems she, while also being easily fatigued and weak in synchronicity with her inability to remain still. It is as though she cannot find inner tranquility, although she certainly has no idea as to why she can be feeling so peculiar. She knows that she isn't ill, and nothing has direly changed in any way for the past while, so that eliminates the possibility of an external force interfering.

So she merely ignores it for a while; that is, until Battler begins to notice that something is unusual about her behavior and appearance. Wan is her complexion, with slightly dark circles underneath her eyes, as though she has been unable to sleep for some time. Beatrice begins to act increasingly as though she does not care nearly as much as she usually does about things, and if anything concerns Battler, this is the most pressing of his worries.

One night, while lying awake and thinking, Battler decides that, perhaps, he shall have to ask Beatrice herself, in order to get to the root of matters.

_It's not like her to act so strangely or so... Without such a livelihood that she used to, in a way._

Upon reaching the door of Beatrice's room, enshrouded in darkness, Battler places his ear against it to see if he can hear something - this way, he can perchance draw a conclusion without having to face Beatrice herself. However, there is no noise inside the room, and Battler, with resignation, decides to enter. Turning the doorknob, he slowly walks into the room, finding it just as dark as the outside hallway; however, he can see Beatrice lying in her bed amidst the lack of luminosity, and he can even see her vivid blue eyes glittering with insomnia.

When she notices his presence, Beatrice mutters with no inflection in her exhausted monotone, "What?"

Being sure to close the door behind him - who knows what kind of mischief others, such as Ronove or even Virgilia, can perform with that door ajar -, Battler leans against it and crosses his arms.

"Nothing, really."

Still lying in a supine position with her hands behind her head, Beatrice continues to bore holes in the ceiling with her eyes.

"Then why are you here?"

"Look, if you're trying to -" Battler cuts himself off when Beatrice aims her gaze at him.

_She can't be faking anything like this, _he realizes when he sees the peculiar tint to her eyes.

"Trying to what?"

"That's not what I meant to say," corrects Battler. "Look, you've acting so strangely lately. Is there any reason why...?"

Biting her lower lip, Beatrice doesn't answer; this provokes Battler to draw nearer to her, until he is at the edge of her bed.

"C'mon - you're not right. Something has to be wrong for you to behave like this."

Unresponsive remains she for a while longer; then she shakes her head.

"I don't... I don't really know." Mumbles she reluctantly, as though she does not want Battler to know anything regarding how she feels.

Focusing on the shadowy highlights rimming Beatrice's eyes, Battler suggests as he sits on Beatrice's bed, "Maybe you just need to sleep?"

She does not reply, but her silence indicates that slipping away into slumber is something she is incapable of doing. Silence filters once more into the room as neither party ventures to speak, until Battler feels something warm on his hand; upon looking to find what it is, he sees Beatrice's hand on his own.

"If you think so, then sing me to sleep," she mutters, a hint of her real, healthy self creeping back into her eyes.

"Er..." Unsure of how to react, Battler ponders over this. Certainly he cannot _sing _her to sleep... He cannot sing well in the first place, and would only exacerbate Beatrice's insomnia and current condition all the more if he were to attempt this.

But when a certain song manifests itself in his head, rippling from his reminisces, he knows what to do.

"Well... All right."_If it helps, I suppose..._

"What kind of song is it?" The witch mumbles, not removing her hand from Battler's.

"A song... Something that Dad taught Ange when she was little. She would sing it all the time, and I guess I just picked it up eventually."

Waiting for Battler to begin, Beatrice slips further under the blankets until they nearly enshroud her face.

Somehow able to recall the song's beginning, Battler softly croons the first few lines: "Dear fair one, white like the moon you are, and yet as inconstant. Young and with a soul bathed in white, as the somei yoshino tree when in blossom..."

And he continues to murmur lyrics he barely remembers, whispering about innocence and somei yoshino - things that he would ordinarily deem contradictory to Beatrice's nature; however, looking at her, so frail with some undiagnosable illness, he finds that they nearly describe her well.

So as he watches her chest rise and fall regularly until her hand slips from his, he knows that she will return to her normal self the next morning, but somehow, the brief moments they spend together now will not be lost in the sea of destroyed, usurped memories.

* * *

With one look at the comatose, unreachable witch, Battler knows that there is nothing he can do but this: he reaches out and holds her close in an embrace, tangling her ringlets in his fingers, and he begins to sing.

"Dear fair one, white like the moon you are, and yet as inconstant. Young and with a soul bathed in white..."

A frail voice seems to finish his sentence: "As the somei yoshino tree when in blossom..."

And who knows? Perchance it is not the witch holding onto the memories of that night; can't it merely be the wind...?

* * *

**Sleep does crazy things to the mind. It did this to me, seeing as I thought of it when literally asleep, heh heh.**

**And what was wrong with Beato? Eh. I dunno... That's arbitrary, I guess.  
**


	16. The Curtain Falls

**...Because I got inspired today in school. XD**

**Also, this theme marks the halfway point! Already, wow...  
**

* * *

It falls between one reality and another.

For Beatrice, there exist two worlds, two different dimensions, that are the parallel opposites of the other. In one world, there is fighting, as well as wars that break out constantly. Paralyzing this world and incapacitating the hearts of all who dwell here is hatred, a force that cannot be easily subdued. Two cannot coexist: one plus one yields such a number, due to a lack of equilibrium and other forces necessary for particular truths to exist. Rather, in their place, there are naught but death and sadistic tortures, performed by toying with people.

Yet, in the other world, divided from the other by a thin curtain, is the antithesis of the suffering on the other side. Here, pain fails to exist; nothing like it can come close to being tangible. Unheard of is fighting or war, and hearts are only captivated by rushes of heart-shattering emotion. There is no death but that of dying to become a new self.

And here, everything is arranged such that truth is truth, and one plus one may only equal one. For even though the conditions are correct for mathematical lemmas to be proven, one plus one equals naught but one here.

Because this is the world in which they love each other and are together always.

In Beatrice's imagination, one world is marked by the game she plays and to which she is chained; the other, by what she wants to attain someday.

And the curtain is so thin and permeable as it falls, that she knows it can be riven asunder, allowing her to reach that world where Battler is waiting for her.


	17. Think of Me and I'll Be There

**...I've, er, been busy. XD I wrote 290 lines of poetry in two days last weekend, guys. So that's what I've been up to.**

* * *

Broken. Shattered. _Chained._

These words are the quintessence of what she feels right now.

Of course, it's rather unusual for Beatrice to feel such strange feelings - such sensations of helplessness, of loneliness, of hopelessness. Naturally, she is almost a little fearful of her own feelings, like a little child lost in a wide, silent forest, or a teenager whose mentality is developing. So uncertain is she that she's hidden herself away in her room, because she just wants to flee from everyone.

Beatrice doesn't even understand what's wrong; that in itself is the most terrifying thing she's ever known. No one fears death, pain, or loss; rather, everyone fears naught but the fear of fear itself.

Although this fails to assuage her sentiments.

There is but one thing in the world that can soothe her now. And she believes that there is a way to drown herself and drink in this medicinal panacea.

It's whenever she merely thinks of him that he's there. No matter the circumstances. No matter the time or the place. No matter how she feels.

If she's triumphant and envisages laughing in his face, he's there.

If she's happy and imagines sharing her bliss with him, there he is.

So, now that she's broken, thinking of him should conjure him up, right?

She tries. Desperately. Incessantly. Running through her consciousness, the images, so calm and tranquil, seem to warm her throughout.

And it's really no surprise when what Beatrice requires the most - Battler's arms holding her close, as well as his presence - embraces her, and she knows that everything will be all right.

Because he's _there._

* * *

**I... Could have made this really funny, but I really wasn't in the mood for humor when I wrote it this morning. **

**And: for some unknown reason, whenever I go to science competitions, I have to write a PMC theme. XD**


	18. Run Away

**This was strange to write. XD Because it's based on what I'm going through right now, but... I'm a girl, and this is Battler-centric. XD;**

* * *

He's not going to flee from it.

Battler wasn't quite sure why he chose to stay at first, but now it's perfectly clear in his mind.

Confused is he still, even though he has made his decision. Maybe this confusion is typical, but he doesn't recognize that at first. What matters to him are the strange feelings coming over him now, the strange desires. The odd sensations that tug at him, forcing him to ponder things he thought impossible hitherto.

What reason does he have to run away, anyway? Denial will never gain him anything. Running and hiding merely make injuries deeper, until rifts are so great and swallowing that they can never be overcome. They then become labyrinthine, and all ways of possibly finding an exit become impossible. Yes, even if Battler had made the choice to leave, matters cannot be left the way they are. To leave things with such great gravities is not to create clean fractures. Rather, the wounds become messy and incapable of healing.

And his conscience confirms what he already knows - that he cannot do that to Beatrice.

So Battler has chosen not to run away from the strange feelings of love lurking within, just waiting to develop and find their way into the light. Just waiting to finally be able to hug her and touch her. And he knows that his choice will make him happy, but that's not what matters.

Because all that matters to him is that _she _is happy. That is his one concern, his one desire right now.

After all, that's all that true love really is.


	19. Love and Hate

**If anyone is wondering, this did _not _come from something in my real life. XD;;; So don't be worrying about me...  
**

* * *

She doesn't know quite what she should do.

Two wants cannot coexist. Such a thing is impossible and unfathomable, as well as denying the laws of the universe. Two polar existences cannot counterbalance each other or be so intimately intertwined; they upset intrinsic equilibrium. Rather than creating balance, the two antitheses form rifts and inequalities, forcing one desire to be decided more important and, thus, chosen.

And, of course, Beatrice knows which one she will eventually adopt as her paradigm of these strange sentiments. Knows it well. But there is still its polar side lurking within her, creating the possibility of interloping in her happiness and more prominent and prevalent wish.

Yes, she may love him. Love him dearly. Love him _desperately, blindly, knowingly, deeply_... There is no human or metaphysical way for her to count the ways.

Therefore, if there is no way to account for the positive side of one coin, there is no way to do such for the negative side. If positive numbers cannot be counted, where would understanding of negative numbers find its roots?

So, if she holds such feelings as veracity and treasures them, so interwoven with every fiber of her soul, why does she want to kiss him furiously while desiring to kill him violently...?


	20. Broken Dreams

They lie in another realm, smashed into fragments.

Every little dream Beatrice has had during her existence has been broken, shattered, riven asunder until she can no longer remember what it ever was. Even the dreams she held onto tightly as a little girl are gone, wrenched away from her like an older child stealing a toy from a younger one.

And why has such a thing occurred? Because she traded the longings of her heart for power? Because she was destined to break from the beginning? Because no one really ever cared and simply manipulated her weak mentality?

It does not matter which of these is veracity. Holding no significance for Beatrice are the causes; rather, it is the effects and her feelings that have the most gravity.

Somewhere, in the smallest corner of her heart, one dream has been shielded and held onto, however. One little piece of her childish self that remains whole.

That is the dream she dreams in the dark nights, when no one is there. The dream she clings to the most fervently.

In this reverie of hers, she walks slowly in a little world, a small figment of her imagination that she never believes will come true. It is not Earth. It is not space. It is nowhere. It is within her heart and soul that this world is located, away from everything else and every sharp shard of pain. From every negative influence is it shielded; it is protected and remains pure.

However, she is not alone in this little world of hers. But this is not a bad thing - this world would not be the world it is without the presence of another.

For it is for that very purpose that the dimension exists: this is her dream, her burning desire, to be loved by someone and to truly love. And to be embraced and held close.

Beatrice never thought that this little dream of hers might become reality, however. And, perchance, there is now a remote possibility that this dream will never break.

Ever.

* * *

**This doesn't pertain to the drabble, really, but I put a new poll up on my profile, and I'd love it if everyone voted in it. Thanks!**


	21. Silhouette

**Sort of a followup to Broken Dreams.**

**Also, anime watchers: spoilers. That I really don't think constitute as spoilers anymore. XD  
**

* * *

Silence.

A small interlude in the agony of the lack of her voice that gradually escalates into a wailing scream.

Hot tears flowing like lava.

Battler has nothing left of Beatrice. Nothing left of her beautiful body, of her cackling voice, of her very_ life,_ except the small broken wing caressed between his fingers. The little sliver of gold. The fragile ribbon-like object in his hand, so easily shattered, makes him tremble with the fear that, if he does something wrong, it too will melt away into ashes, just like the woman he loves so much...

The thought nearly makes him choke.

It's all he has left of her physical form, the little butterfly wing. As broken as the last dream Beatrice desperately clung onto until the end.

But, when he dares to think again, he knows that he has intangible, metaphysical pieces of her left. Little fragments in the pieces of his heart, no longer whole now that he has been broken so deeply, shattered so completely.

Still he has emotions: the emotions she invokes in his heart. Every shard of agony. Every piece of happiness. Every fragment of anger, of vexation, of humiliation and abashment and bliss and sadness and hope and despair and... And... _Love_.

Yes, he has the pieces of love she conceived in his heart. The little fragments that are, while broken the most, the strongest of all feelings she ever caused him to experience. And they shall remain the most potent.

"Is there nothing I can do... Now...?"

If he has tortured her always, tortured her forever, then he has to atone for his sin against her. There is no way to apologize verbally now that she is mere ash, plain dust, carried in the wind; however, there may be a way to apologize and scream how sorry he is through his actions.

"Yes, I... I must fight for the truth... To redeem myself. If I have broken you all along and caused you pain, then I must... Regain merit once more. And become who I always wanted to be for you."

Battler dares not clutch the frail butterfly harder, but in his heart he is pouring his tears upon it, drowning it in the words he was never able to say, and pressing it to his heart as fiercely as he can - as fiercely as he desired to hold Beatrice, but was never able to do so.

He must continue to fight. Even with the hellish-red sword puncturing his chest.

"Watch me, Beato. I will fight and do what you are unable to do."

His hand touches his lips before reaching out into the air, as though giving a final kiss and hug to the one he loves more than anything.

"I'm sorry."

Things seem to fade.

"I love you. But you never knew that, did you...?"

And he, with the silhouette of her corporeal form carved onto every shard of his heart like stenciled wax, will fight. He will live with the image of all of her emotions etched into his soul.

To fulfill that dream that, in the end, broke like every single one of her dreams.

* * *

**If no one cried, I'm a failure\sap. XD**

**Because I almost cried, haha.  
**


	22. Fairytale

**Sorry that this was so short - I had no idea what to do with it.**

**In other news, I'm holding an Umineko contest, and the details of that should be up on my profile shortly.**

**Also, I'm on spring break this week, so I'll probably be able to write some more. :D  
**

* * *

It's no fairytale.

They truly are the converse of such a naive fantasy, one created to drown the imagination in a sugarcoated, unrealistic reality.

No: in life, there are no happy endings, and her particular case is not an exception to this law. There is no hope that she, a damsel in distress, will be rescued by a knight is shining armor. Battler is no knight, and she is no princess, unlike what she wants with all her heart to believe now, as she sees things seem to darken and grows colder.

Perhaps that was what she knew from the beginning. That really, they were a fairytale in reverse: torturing each other, hurting each other, making the other suffer excruciatingly. But that doesn't mean that she didn't hope, that she never prayed for something more. For everything to end, for the pain to stop so they could be _happy_ together.

But when two people are trapped, how can one rescue the other? If two who love each other so deeply are imprisoned eternally and their destruction plotted, how is it possible that both may escape alive, one embraced tightly and carried carefully the arms of the other?

The answer is impossibly: there is no feasible way for the two to escape alive together - one must die in a game as cruel as this.

Beatrice never broke this law. She herself broke not the law of trying to survive with Battler, trying to escape the pain. Neither did Battler breach this ordinance in any way.

Because no one breaks the law.

_The law breaks everyone who tries to break it._

And it has finally shattered and permeated the darkest and innermost depths of Beatrice's heart as she closes her eyes and slips away into the final darkness.

* * *

**There _is _a hug in here, I swear it. XD**


	23. Aurora Borealis

**Warning: if you survive this... Yeah. XD;**

* * *

He's never experienced a night quite like this one.

Yes, Battler has lived through the terrifyingly nightmarish murders, watching corpse after corpse grotesquely decorate the floors of the mansion. Yes, he's experienced the night he stayed up, making sure that Beatrice would not suffer another nightmare. Yes, he's lullabied her to sleep and watched her melt away into another dimension in which she dreams of him. Yes, he's even spent nights himself dreaming of her.

But none of these experiences can compare to this night, so different from every other night of his existence - both his life on the game-board and his life in the metaphysical realm. Even going so far as to compare the experiences would be, in a way, comparing bitterness (the murders) to sweetness (the nights with and dreams of Beatrice), and then, finally, to the most wonderful taste in the world (that is, the present). And, of course, the most wonderful taste in the world is inevitably the sublimity of tastes - that is, it is the most beautiful night he has ever experienced.

And, perchance, there is a chance that this is not even the beginning. When he gazes back upon the nights that are locked the most deeply and safeguarded the most carefully in his heart, he notes that they continue to become better and better. Why, therefore, can nothing be better than this night?

The answer is that something has that feasibility intrinsically. And what it comes ere to is better than it is.

What, then, makes this night so beautiful?

Nothing that he can possibly describe in human words. No, this night may only be conveyed using the silent language of the heart and of metaphysical existences - the words that are spoken by the innermost depths of the soul can only speak what he feels now.

Then, now that this ability to speak is released, what will his soul speak of first? The joy of holding her without fighting or torturing each other? The beauty of what enfolds in the sky before them? The feelings he finally feels and recognizes now as the very truth - a truth that can never be shattered nor denied in any way, as well as one that has a sole existence?

The things must be spoken of in a chronological matter; thus, he shall first speak of the night sky, of the cool air and internal warmth, of his diamond-dust breath joining to form one union with the cold surrounding them, and of the rainbow-like watercolor paint arching over the sky, painted by a connoisseur of artistry.

That is to say, Battler and Beatrice are held tightly in the hands of a cold winter night. Whipping past their faces pleasantly, the gentle wind tosses the snow around softly, like little ribbons of white rushing around their feet. Glittering above them like a child's work of art, made with splattered paint and randomly arranged rhinestones, are the stars and constellations. Orion, as the peak of the winter sky, is immediately above them, as though guarding them from evil and anything that might befall them. Even the cold does not affect the two; there is internal warmth keeping them carefully held against all the piercing frigidness, as if they were being held in the hand of God.

But the most beautiful and mellifluous part of the night sky is the aurora borealis illuminating all darkness. Even the moon in all her glory, with her silver gown and pale white eyes gazing down upon the world, is only the equal of the rare phenomenon. No, the quintessence of ethereal beauty itself tonight is the northern lights, with streaks of red mixed in with pale blue; elegant indigo; noble, valiant yellow; majestic, mysterious violet; and, finally, green like liquid peridots and emeralds. This glorious pallet is set on a backdrop of black and blue, encompassing the entire sky until the horizon, where dawn certainly awaits.

And this is only the scenery. What overwhelm Battler equally are the feelings and the joy he feels mingling in his heart. The sensations of true love, so poignant and beautiful, with the joy of finally being able to exist with her without torture. Without pain. With nothing but the feeling of her body against his, and the feelings which even the depths of his innermost soul cannot convey.

And thus, he holds her closer and swears to never take these feelings for granted. Because even though dawn is certainly waiting, something new, something better, is always watching with it.

* * *

**Holy beans... Never knew I could describe like that. O_o**


	24. Footprints

Their love is like footprints on a sandy beach.

When the footprints are made, they who are running on the beach and creating the small, perfectly shaped indentations are full of bliss at the warm wind rushing through their hair, playing with the sand and making little designs in the miniature craters of their footprints. Just rising is the sun, splattering radiant, saturated pastel hues over the horizon and across the sky, heralding the birth of a new day. When those footprints are made, so happily and in a time of such carefree thoughts, their time of formation is the quintessence of simple joy, entwined with love.

But like all happy things, waves of sadness must wash the footprints, symbols of love and happiness, away from the beach. And so they come, with crests of sorrow and white foam of death, overcoming the happy love that had been sown there hitherto. When the waves finally recede, there is nothing left but cold, wet sand - there is neither a glimmer nor even a trifling hint of what had been there previously.

And no matter how many times they may run across that beach together, the pain eventually comes and decimates the happiness and love they created together.

But that is all right. Inevitable and inescapable is pain in this world, on this beach; however, there is another beach somewhere. One where the footprints are immortal and love cannot be destroyed by the cold undulations of sorrow. They can run together on this beach, hold each other on this beach, without worrying about their love being gone or destroyed shortly after. Without having to worry if they will die before they can be happy together.

And this beach is just within reach.

The one query that remains is how they will get to that beach together, safe, and alive.

Is it even possible...?


	25. Ice

He's never felt so cold in his life.

But what's even more petrifying, more chillingly disturbing, than the cold Battler feels is the fact and the awareness of its source: that it is not internal, that it is not coming from him.

It is coming from the dead woman, her rich blue eyes blanketed by her sallow eyelids, who is splayed across his chest, whom he wants to hold so much, but doesn't. Because he's afraid of breaking her further.

If warmth is life, then frigidness is death. Nothing in the world is there that can bring the warmth that she once possessed back to Beatrice; nothing can ever defrost this ice freezing her no-longer-life-blood. Not even hugging her and embracing her as he always wanted to, but never did as much as he desired to.

_Nothing can ever bring her back to life. _

Because the ice that froze and is continuing to freeze her heart is something that cannot be melted, even with the warmth of the love Battler feels for her. Be the ice thinner than a thread, it is stronger than steel, and is incapable of being penetrated or its creation reversed into destruction.

And it is the sickest mystery in the world, this icy death. Because why is it that that which sustains life, when in merely another form of matter, kills...?

_

* * *

_**...Why is it that when I write something to comfort myself, it turns out like this? XD;**_  
_


	26. I Never Speak the Truth

***apologizes for being gone so long* T_T**

**Also: I actually wasn't sad. XD I was simply nervous about having to go back to school after break. You all reminded me why I love this fandom so much, however: everyone cares about each other, so thanks for all the cyber-hugs and comforting I got. (:  
**

* * *

Truth.

What is it? And how does it relate to the conscious and unconscious world?

Being the partaker in the game that he is, Battler must know the answers to these queries. But he's never been more uncertain of them hitherto.

The literal denotation of of veracity he knows - a statement that does not prevaricate and something in alignment with something that exists, that _is_. Ergo, a lie equivocates - it is something unaligned with something that is.

However, it is the connotation comprehends he not.

And it is his downfall, his obliteration.

Unable to understand anything related to veracity, he will fade away into the shadows of blindness and despair.

Being a liar himself, how can he know truth? Be he seeking the truth, he shall never discover it, until he destroys the liar within his own soul.

What are his lies? In what way has he been deceitful or damaged matter through his own twisted "truth?"

To deny is to lie; therefore, he lies now as he swears to his pure, undefiled hatred of Beatrice.

Because abhorrence is merely a denial of love and human proclivity to love: to love, now, is to speak the truth.

And without love, the truth cannot be seen. This Battler realizes as he holds the witch in his arms, her face buried in his jacket.

Shall he deny that he loves her, he is lying; shall he deny that he hates her, he is speaking righteously and without corruption.

Unless he says that he loves her, he cannot sense or see the truth.

But he never speaks the truth - although that, too, is a lie.

And in telling the truth in saying that he never does, he demonstrates that he does, indeed, have the capacity to tell the truth.

Therefore, Battler can tell Beatrice he loves her.

One day.

* * *

**...Anyone else find it funny that the object of my affection helped me write this and read and complimented it when I was done? X\D**

**And happy Easter, everyone!  
**


	27. Hazel Eyes

**This is a bad theme. =_= Probably because I wrote it under -odd- circumstances. XD;**

* * *

"Hey... Battler?"

Her words cut through the silence of the room; quiet evenings like these are typically spent without conversation and in careful reflection upon the current events of the game, and Battler hadn't expected Beatrice to make it otherwise.

"What?"

Had the day been more strenuous and bloody - it is not, for the early stages of the game are still nascent -, Battler knows he wouldn't have been able to withstand what he knows is likely to become an onslaught of pointless queries - questions about inconsequential things, such as what his favorite color is. Whenever she begins asking these, Battler senses the witch's boredom and uneasily satiated thirst for conversation; consequently, he knows his time will be better spent napping or avoiding Ronove.

Despite this, however, he opts to remain with her: perchance she will finally ask something worthwhile or entertaining - for once.

"What... What does your ideal person look like?"

After her words linger in the air for a long period of time, silence regains prevalence in the spiritual, isolated little room. An awkward question, it somewhat startles Battler: never has he heard Beatrice ask him something like that.

"Why are you asking me that?" He asks, corking a brow suspiciously.

"It's just a question, Battler," she mutters nonchalantly, cupping her chin in her hand and gazing into the the non-existent world beyond the window.

"Yes, but each question - no matter who is asking it - has an underlying intention for which someone desires an answer. Doesn't it?"

"And my intention is merely to appease my boredom."

"That's not what I meant... How did such a question come into your mind?"

"Th-That doesn't matter."

Battler can almost swear he just saw her blush, and, from this, he has his answer; however, he decides to tease her just a bit.

"My ideal person, huh? Well... She would certainly_ have_ to have cow tits - that's the most important asset. Less important... Dark blue hair, of course. And... Hazel eyes. The brightest of pure hazel."

She ponders this for a moment; then, she settles on her resolve.

"I see..."

* * *

The next day, a shout of shock arouses the sun and allows its rays to peer through the windows and onto the strange sight at which Battler is staring.

"Wha-What in the world...?" He asks, stunned.

"Th-This isn't what you think it is! R-Ronove just had too much fun with paint last night while I was sleeping!"

While perhaps seeming rude, Battler's shock is justified: it is not every day he awakes to find his greatest opponent (and greatest love) with sopping wet, cobalt hair and hazel - the brightest of pure hazel - eyes replacing her natural, comely blue shade.

"So you're saying he painted your hair," Battler remarks; now that his shock has passed, laughter, threatening to bubble over like water over a rock, alights and dances upon his lips.

"Y-Yes! That's exactly what he did... I'm going to get him for that!"

"And exactly how did you get hazel eyes?"

"Color contacts... B-But he did that, too!"

"How could he have done that while you were sleeping, Beato?"

"U-Uh..."

Clearly at a loss for words, Beatrice scowls deeply and clenches her fists, trying to supplement her fallacy. Knowing what the witch has done, Battler allows his laughter to fall finally from his lips at the sight.

Because he also knows why.

"You know," Battler murmurs as he bends down to hug her, "I liked you better the way you were."


	28. Photograph

**I have a really lame excuse. XD It took two weeks to get this up because... Well, let's just say I recently realized my life is going to be hell until about early\mid-June. I had six tests last week, three of which were on the same day; thus, I haven't really had a lot of writing time. But I'll keep trying to finish these soon. (:**

* * *

Photographs.

Captured images, sealed-away memories engraved with ink and film onto paper. A human, temporal attempt to preserve happiness and the "best of times."

But paper is finite; ink fades away. How can eternal things - memories and images of times long past - be entwined with something finite, something limited, something that will pass away and die one day?

That is not to say photographs are disordered, that photographs are wrong. Instead, they are blessings; they are precious; they are beautiful. The question is not if they are bad - how can something like them be considered wrong, if they can bring tears of past happiness or pangs of lonely longing? -, but rather, where they belong.

And it is just this very question Battler finds himself thinking about one night, alone in the game room. Although he's quite uncertain how this inquiry came into his mind, he still finds himself thinking about it.

Strangely enough, he finds himself drawing a parallel to Ange. His little sister, his practically abandoned little sister. Kyrie sometimes used to enjoy taking pictures of the two siblings together: when they fought, when they made up, when they played together. Battler still has those pictures - not with him here in the meta-world, of course, but at home. And he knows the reason why those photographs are as special as they are: not just because they carry so many memories with them, but because of the genesis and home of those reminisces.

They are preserved on paper, but they live in his heart; they are etched into something finite, but they live in an infinite home.

And that's how things should be. Pictures live mortally; memories, immortally. The two can coexist, but not without the presence of the latter.

Which is the answer to Battler's question: even if he has no pictures of Beatrice, every moment they share, every hug they share, lives on in his heart.

Because the pictures in his heart are worth infinitely more than the pictures he has on paper.


	29. Splash

**I don't know how many people saw the note I (used to) have on my profile, but my laptop is busted. I didn't lose anything of value, really, but since my family is lurking around me all the time now, it's both difficult and annoying to write while listening to them. Actually, they all almost got headshot with a machete a moment ago. *shrugs* **

**Just wanted to give everyone a heads up.  
**

* * *

It's almost as though her world finally has color again.

To say that Beatrice is--or was--unable to see in color is to misunderstand the entire concept of the colors of her world. She's always been able to see the world in color; however, it's her mind, her heart, her soul, that are incapable of seeing in anything other than monochromatic white, black, and gray. The basic colors of the world, the saddest colors of the world. Colors of rainy skies in cold, empty, lonely nights, colors of darkness and of fear, colors of death and... despair.

Whereas her eyes see every color of the rainbow, her heart sees naught but empty colors.

At least, that's how it's been for most of her life. All of her time spent in sadness, in loneliness. Her time spent as Virgilia's disciple, her time spent as the Golden Witch, her time spent during the first games of Rokkenjima.

It was he who finally brought color vision back to the eyes of her lonely, despondent soul.

Ushiromiya Battler.

Upon first sight, he seemed nothing more than someone who would only be a fun toy to play with and break. In her foolishness, Beatrice never imagined the one whom she wanted to make lonelier than herself would be the one who would bring her out of her own loneliness, out of her own spiritual blindness.

And the first color he gave back to her was red. Fiery crimson, passionate scarlet, uncontrollable _red_.

But not only was it a color that became her perfectly, but it was also the color of his hair. His occasionally unruly, spiky hair, his soft, handsome hair...

Then, after that gift, he returned to her soul blue. Tranquil sky-blue; deep, pondering navy; resplendent, shimmering turquoise; and pale, fragile, aquamarine.

But not only was it a color that she used to love so much, but it was also the color of his eyes. His deep, boundless pools of watery color, of reflective, oceanic calmness—except when they were full of some sort of sentiment, whether that be anger, sadness, or even... No, it was not love he showed first to her in those eyes, was it...?

After blue came yellow. Sunny, yellow, joyful yellow, vivid _yellow_.

Battler did not have any sort of yellow in his features, but Beatrice did: her golden locks, which he, upon caressing in his fingers, allowed her to see with the eyes of true vision.

The other colors all came in a rush after that: orange, violet, indigo, green, pink—all of these he allowed her to see with the real eyes of her soul that saw true colors with true vision, vision that she would never lose.

And it is only because he gave these to her that she can love him so much now as he holds her: she can see him for everything he is.

The little splash of love, joy, and color he is in her life.


	30. Candlelight

It had all started when the damn power went out.

And even _that _hadn't been his fault, no matter how much she _still _wants to blame it on him!

Besides, whoever imagined the power in the game room could fail is an idiot—which, naturally, means Beatrice has been correct about Battler the whole time. After all, everyone—especially Battler and Beatrice—needs to learn nothing is safe from Ronove's mischief.

Not even nonexistent electricity.

And, watching Beatrice pout in the corner, Battler silently curses the demon furniture for being so infuriating as to do something this stupid.

...Then again, they are all accountable for the idiocy that has occurred this night. Ronove is responsible for tampering with lighting; Battler, accountable for having the idea to use candles (he's still certain of his brilliance in the idea); Beatrice, answerable for not only fixing the lights—Battler still isn't certain why she hasn't—but also for being the one stupid enough to burn off part of her hair.

And that would be precisely why she is pouting in the corner, the ends of her hair singed and ragged. And, of course, still muttering every now and then how much she _knows _it's Battler's fault.

_But what the hell did _I _do to catch her hair on fire? _He wonders, quite irritated with her. _She was the one who got too close to the candles; she was the one who got burnt by trying to get too close to me._

Sitting on the other side of the still-dark room, Battler sighs and crosses his arms before calling out to Beatrice, still hunched over in the corner, her back facing him.

"It's only going to get worse if you don't admit it was your fault, idiot," he points out, waiting for a reply.

But he doesn't get one.

"Why aren't you even turning the lights back on? I know you have the power to do it; don't you? You're just trying to keep me in the darkness so you can play some trick on me. Well, I'm not falling for it."

Although spoken without any harmful intent behind them—other than to prove his innocence in the affair, get a response and light back, and show he has overcome his gullibility—his words are spoken wrongly. That is, they have an unintended effect on the lonely witch in the corner.

It's not her burnt hair that's making her cry. It's not the darkness; it's not the fact that Ronove did something so stupid. It's not even the fact that Battler keeps vexing her.

It's the symbolism behind everything that makes her sad. She was burnt trying to get to him, to Battler. Yet, what does that mean for them? Will she constantly be hurt if she keeps trying to hold him, to make him hold her?

Although she thinks it's stupid and childish to feel the way she does, Beatrice is a witch. She understands omens. And she interprets this one to mean she should never get near Battler again.

Because who knows what the consequences will be next time? Death? Pain?

No matter what, she won't return light to the room. Not until she's done silently crying in a place where Battler can't see her.

* * *

**I... Don't like this. Wow. What else is new? XD And how many themes have involved Beato's hair by now...?**


	31. Hug!

She's happiest when he's holding her.

Although she can't quite explain why, Beatrice has always been a very affectionate person. She tries to hide it, but there are people who know this: Virgilia, for example. When Beatrice was still small, she would often hug Virgilia, despite being tall enough to barely cling to her waist. Shannon, too, was often on the receiving end of Beatrice's love. Hugs, innocent kisses on cheeks, holding hands cheerfully—all of these were gestures she used to give and receive so frequently—almost every day, in fact.

But as she grew older and saw the melancholic, painful reality of the world, she repressed any sort of love (or even signs of it), replacing affection with affectation. There was no reason for her to love anyone: they all betrayed and hurt her in the end: what reason did she even have to be kind to be people?

That was the birth of the Beatrice who demolished Battler's family, drastically altered his life.

Even so, upon finally meeting him, she slowly began showing more affection. She pushed him. She tortured him. But she also held him, touched him more gently, and even kissed him more than once. She cried in his arms, raged in his arms—even laughed in his arms on occasion.

Everyone noticed it. Virgilia was especially confounded by the strange change in the behavior of her former student. She still marvels somewhat at the affectionate gestures Beatrice now expresses mutually toward Battler: she never imagined a day might come when someone would appear whom Beatrice could love as much as she does.

All of this passes through Beatrice's head as she feels Battler's arms wrap warmly and so tenderly around her, drawing her closer to his chest almost protectively—as though he'll never let anyone have her, as though she's entirely his own.

But these feelings aren't lies. They belong solely to each other.

And both just want to stay there forever, sleeping in each other's arms. Staying together forever, as though they aren't enemies. Remaining together for all eternity, never having to resume fighting. Loving each other always.

And never having to die.

* * *

**That... Was a short last theme. Sorry - I wanted to make it kinda simple. A simple finish with irony.  
**

**Because you know what? All of you got trolled. XD Remember? I split one theme into two and posted each as a separate chapter! So really, you guys got what you deserve - 31 chapters using 30 themes. (:**

**I can't give individual thanks to everyone who reviewed, but I want you all to know how much I effing love you guys. Seriously. I never dreamt in my wildest dreams this'd be so popular. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who kept me going. **

**Until 30 caresses!**

**~Immortal x Snow  
**


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